


The One From The Shadows

by Thatoneguyyoudidntknowfromtumblr



Series: Shadows [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gang Violence, Origin Story, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Poisoning, Refugees, Starvation, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4257252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatoneguyyoudidntknowfromtumblr/pseuds/Thatoneguyyoudidntknowfromtumblr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A war doesn't matter when you wake up in an alley without knowing who you are or how you got there.</p><p>**</p><p>Written originally in 2005, re-written in 2008, my personal Origin Story for Autobot Jazz of the G1 franchise.  Looking over it now, this could work for IDW Jazz, too, with a bit of tweaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He came awake all at once, grasping after something which evaded him with the ease of air escaping a net. The dreams had been shattered by a nearby footstep, something prompting him to spring to his feet, darting down the alley toward a half-remembered sense of safety. It was the only thing he remembered. His life, up until he had woken moments before, had disappeared the moment the dreams had. Now, in fact, even the memories of the dreams themselves were fading.

The mech paused, catching sight of his reflection in a polished bit of metal that was propped against the side of a building. At least, he thought it was him; no one else was around and his processor identified with the image immediately. _That's me, whoever I am_ , the mech thought, gazing at the smallish grayish armored mech with a black helmet, silver, confused expression, and blue visor, which completely hid his optics. Watching his expression turn curious, he approached the reflective metal and examined himself more closely. Black hands, grayish fore-arms, black shoulders, every movement graceful and lithe. His alternate mode seemed to be a flat-ground racer, from the shape of his chest plate and the pieces he could see on his back and legs.

He could work with this. All he needed to do was get cleaned up a bit - though not too much - and find some kind of work. Folks didn't trust a mech who was shining clean with a perfect wax job. It made them think he didn't belong. Being as slim as he was thankfully meant that those same folks wouldn't want him for hard labor. Though he knew he was stronger than he looked, he was glad his structure didn't give that impression. Abandoning the reflective surface, he drifted down the alley toward the street as he thought. It never occurred to him to question why he knew these things; he just did.

"Hey!"

He had just stepped out onto the street when the call came, startling him enough that he wheeled, taking a step back. He met the gaze of a large gray mech, standing in the side door of the nearest building, an impatient expression on his face. Then young mech turned his thumb toward his chest, silently asking if the much taller gray mech meant him.

"Yes, you, scraplet, lookin' for some work? Of course you are, everyone is. C'mere. I'll give you some energon if you take a message to Midway. You know where Midway is? Of course you do. Everyone does. Have to be a' idiot not t'know where Midway is."

The gray and black mech found himself nodding, walking to the door to accept the pad shoved into his hands. The large gray mech siezed his wrist and hauled him close enough that he could smell the high-grade on the mech's breath. He pulled back slightly, fighting not to grimace.

"You've gotta honest face, so I'll just say this once. Get this pad t' 547-17-3 Midway an' there'll be some good energon in it for ya. Maybe some creds if you get it done fast enough. Give it to the mech, there, see the picture? Good. He'll know who it's from. Just come back here an' knock on the door when you're done. Three taps, like this." He demonstrated and shoved the youngster onto the street.

 _Right place, right time_ , the youngster thought, glancing into the traffic before transforming and shooting off, weaving through the traffic with ease, leaving him free to marvel at his luck. By taking two shortcuts that occurred to him no sooner than when he saw the street signs, he was at the building a few clicks later, unspacing the pad and quickly memorizing the face displayed there.

Inside was a flurry of movement, though most of the mechs and femmes seemed to be waiting for the lift. Not wanting to wait, as the lure of the promised energon was making his tanks grind in hunger, the young mech instead went for the stairs, using his alt mode to make quick work of the seventeen stories. At contrast to the first floor, the seventeenth was a quiet kind of busy, the doors either locked, their windows dark, or open invitingly. The third door down was one of the open ones, light tumbling out into the darker hallway in an almost gleeful yellow. Still, the youngster peeked in before making any move to walk through, wanting to make sure he had the right place.

"Looking for someone?" A graveled voice asked from behind him. He jerked, again wheeling and taking a step, though this time it was to set the hall at his back, instead of into the room. A cream colored mech of middling hight and silver trim was watching him with a slightly amused tinge to his expression, his optics kind. It was the mech he was looking for, so the young mech offered him the pad with a slight bow. "For me?" The older mech questioned. The young mech nodded, turning to go once the mech had taken the pad from him. A hand decended on his shoulder and he spun out from under it, hands up in a defensive move. The cream mech's expression turned sad.

"I didn't mean to startle you, young mech. Here." He offered a pad, as well as a container of energon and a cred stick, which the youngster took gladly with a brilliant smile of thanks. The older mech chuckled. "You're welcome. Better get going."

The young gray and black mech nodded and turned to trot down the hall, taking the stairs once more and arriving back at the door he had gotten the pad from less than ten clicks after he had been sent on his way. He tapped three times just as the large gray mech had showed him, jumping back when the door burst open moments later. The gray mech scowled at him until he produced the pad that the cream mech had given him, which caused the gray mech's optic ridges to jerk upward into his helmet.

"That quickly?" He asked, surprise smoothing his voice from the harsh growl it had been before. The young mech nodded, smiling slightly. "C'mon, in, mechlet," the gray mech continued with a sigh, holding the door open for him. "...smart," he commented, when the young mech hesitated. "But don't worry. I'm not gonna kill ya for parts're anythin'. You did good. You deserve a place t'sit for a while, if you want it."

The gray and black youngster watched him, then made his way inside, looking around with interest as he perched on the nearest stool. It seemed to be the back of an energon bar, from the way high-grade was lining the walls. "My name's Highgate," The gray mech said, pulling down a bottle of low-grade and pouring the youngster out a measure. "I need a mech who'll be willing to work hard for room an' energon. Work'd be cleaning this place, running messages, maybe more if you're good enough. I'm fair; more jobs means more pay."

That was true enough, the youngster knew. He looked around again, seeing the shabby corners but generally well-kept appearance of the bar. Only one thing worried him and he nodded to it; two small splashes of mech fluid on the floor. Highgate's dim optics flickered to the two spots and he grimaced.

"Got rougher than I like in here last night, the mech you're replacing took a dislike to a customer, so I threw them both out. Same'll happen to you, if you start picking fights."

Nodding slowly, the gray and black mech sipped his energon, tasting the quality and examining the container as well. It was clean, the energon good. He saw now, in proper lighting, that the mech in front of him was not painted a dirty gray like he had thought but simply hadn't had time to get to a washrack that day. He offered a nod and a hand to seal the agreement.

"I'll need somethin' t'call you...gotta name?" Highgate asked, frowning slightly when the youngster shook his head. "Then I'll just call you Silent for now."

**

Silent never got the chance to wonder where he came from or who his creator was; he spent all of his time either working or recharging. When he wasn't running messages that he never looked at the contents of during the solar, he was working a bouncer shift at the bar, using all the tricks he knew to keep the place quiet.

"You're Primus-sent," Highgate sighed as Silent helped him back to his home in the early mega-cycles of the morning. "Too good a mech t'be workin' in a place like this. These last three lunars've woulda been impossible without'cha. Don't think I'll ever be able t'thank ya enough."

Silent smiled and patted the larger mech's shoulder reassuringly. It wasn't Highgate's fault that the cost of energon had gone up so much in the last lunar that he couldn't afford to keep the bar open. Tonight had been the final close, they both knew, though their regulars didn't. It was good, really, that the bar was now closed; Highgate's health had taken an abrupt turn for the worse about the same time the price of energon had spiked.

"I'm sorry t'be turnin' you out like this, mechlet. I know y'aint got anyplace else t'go."

The young mech, true to his name, didn't reply as he helped Highgate get settled on the berth, heading for the door once the older mech was comfortable, oil, low-grade, and commlink close at hand. He paused, one hand on the door frame before turning to face his friend, smiling.

"Thanks for trustin' a young nobody like me, with no past an' no way of knowin' if I was gonna bring trouble t'your door," he said quietly, causing Highgate's expression to flick to stunned. "You had no reason t'keep me, after that first solar." He paused, but not long enough for Highgate to gather himself enough to say anything. "If I could have what's left in the bar, I'll be fine, I promise."

"Of...of course. Take care of yourself," Highgate replied, getting over his shock. Silent gave him a smile and left, both mechs feeling, somehow, they would never cross paths again.


	2. Chapter 2

Knowing that the building ownership still belonged to Highgate until the gray mech signed the transfer pad in a few mega-cycles, Silent made his way back to the bar, quickly slipping in to gather what little engeron was left. Highgate, perhaps believing this was the inevitable outcome, had told Silent where all the important stashes were, though most were empty now. Soon Silent had enough to make the trip to Iacon, with a little to spare, though he would need to find work as soon as he reached the capital city.

The young mech had listened to the talk which had circled endlessly in the bar, learning a lot about the current political situation. He knew the sooner he cleared the building, the safer he would be. Highgate, though a kind mech, supported the Decepticons and the Autobot High Council knew it. They wouldn't tolerate anyone supporting the violent group of former energon minors turned freedom fighters, much less a respected community figure like Highgate. It wouldn't be long until his properties were seized and he was imprisoned. Fortunately the large gray mech had never asked Silent for his opinion on the matter, nor did Silent have one.

Someone pounded heavily on the locked front door, apparently ignoring the 'closed' glyph glowing there. Silent dashed into the back hallway, skidding to a stop when he saw the outline of several mechs standing at that door through the frosted transparasteel window.

_Trapped!_

"Highgate! This is the Tyrest Guard! You're hereby placed under arrest in the name of the Autobot High Council and Sentinel Prime for the crime of aiding the Decepticon terrorist underground!"

Silent didn't wait to hear the rest; they would slam him into a detention cell and interrogate him simply for being there. Moving to give credit to his name, he darted up the stairs and through a door on the landing just as the whine of laser cutters shrieked through the building. Climbing the hidden stair behind the door until he burst out onto the roof, the young mech transformed without missing a step and took off with even grater speed, throwing himself through a fortunately open window in the building across the alley. Even as he spun into robot mode, hand-springing to his feet and landing in a crouch, he knew he wasn't safe. The T.G. would come through this building next to make sure no one had done what he just did, before heading to Highgate's home. Silent never wavered; he bolted out the back door, transformed as soon as he hit the street and left Tyrest and Highgate behind, never looking back.

**

 _Iacon was not a good choice_ , Silent thought, heading back to his 'temporary' camp in the corner of an alley after yet another long solar of failing to find work. In the lunar-cycle since he had left Tyrest, he had only found two odd jobs that had each paid little for the hard work that had been required; refugees from all over Cybertron were flooding into the capital city, all looking for work. Even having a job one day didn't guarantee a job the next. Employers knew that all they had to do was find someone willing to work for less than they were currently paying … and there was always someone willing to work for less. The lower city was filled with mechs with the same half-undercharged look Silent knew he had, all of them, like him, with nowhere else to go. Even the Iacon Guard had stopped trying to get them off the streets, though there were rumors that it was because Sentinel had folded them into the Autobot Army due to a desperate need for troops. Because of the horror stories of what the Decepticons were doing to the Army, none of the mechs in the lower city were desperate enough to join the army voluntarily-- yet. That time was coming soon; Silent could feel the desperation in the air around him. The promise of at least a ration of energon a day and a clean place to sleep was beginning to outweigh the risks of being on the front lines. Every time Silent considered it, however, something in him balked. A small voice in his processor whispered that the Army was something to avoid at all costs. Nothing good would ever come from him enlisting.

In the absence of the Iacon Guard, the natural order of things was for gangs to take over the guarding of the lower city, which is exactly what happened. Of course, each gang, despite having their own territory, always wanted what the other gangs had, so it wasn't uncommon to have those simply trying to make their way caught in the crossfire when the gangs skirmished. The area Silent had set his camp up in belonged to the most vicious of the gangs, he had found out, which simply called themselves Us. Silent did his best to avoid its members, but when a scruffy mech with the gang's proud black stripe running down the outside of his shoulder and arm came up beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, there wasn't any way to keep a low profile.

"We've been watching you, mechlet," the blue and white mech murmured to him. "C'mon. The boss wants to talk to you."

It wasn't the kind of invitation one refused, so Silent went along without complaint, watching the crowds clear the way for the mech who still had his hand on Silent's shoulder. The blue and white mech steered Silent down the street, stopping at a door which had frosted transparasteel framing it. The rest of the wall was clear of decoration or windows, covered only in the soot that seemed to have permanently darkened the entire city and those who lived there. He tapped on the transparasteel to the right of the door very lightly with fingertip and a square, palm sized section went clear. Interest caught, Silent watched carefully, even as he kept his demeanor distracted and nervous. The boxy blue and white mech placed his fingertips against the clear section, slowly spreading them until his palm rested flat against it. Silent heard a click from the door, which prompted his guide to snatch his hand from the transparasteel and quickly push the door open with the same hand. The reason for the haste was clear a few moments later; the lock clicked even while the door was still open.

Once they were inside, the blue and white mech grinned at him, motioning him to keep moving down the featureless hall. Glancing up at the way the walls seemed to fold back out of sight before meeting the ceiling, Silent knew a bottleneck when he saw one and his interest perked even more. The building was built for defense, or had been remodeled for it, in any case. When they passed through a second door, Silent spotted the stairways that led up to the ledge that circled both this room and the hallway behind him, though the twenty or so mechs and femmes in the room were ignoring both.

"Thrash." The word was lazy and pleased, though it held an edge that Silent couldn't yet identify. His guide focused on the speaker and pushed him over, gently, to stand in front of a yellow-opticed mech with a coloring that might have been paint or natural rust covering his form. The young gray and black mech instantly noticed how everyone else at the table, and the room, kept one sensor carefully on this mech. One word, one gesture from this mech of middling height and build, completely average in every appearance, and everyone would be at attention. The Leader. Silent adopted the humble posture the mech seemed to expect.

"Here he is, was headin' down South Street, just like you said he'd be," Silent's guide, now known to be called 'Thrash', reported quietly.

"Good mech, Thrash, as prompt and thorough as ever. Have you had your ration today?" The question was completely devoid of any real caring, as far as Silent could tell.

"Yes, sir," Thrash replied.

"When we're done here, I want you to go get another half ration," the rust mech said, waving the blue and white mech to step back.

"Thank you, sir."

With that, Silent knew he was the sole focus of the gang leader's attention. He could feel more than half a dozen sensors pattering against his armor like acid rain, leaving the same uneasy itching sensation behind. "So you're the mech Highgate's friends told me about, the one who doesn't speak but did such good work for him, before he was grabbed. He's dead now, just so you know. Executed for high treason. I suppose it is only fair to point out that Sentinel did oppose the death sentence...but he had to agree in the end, or get branded a traitor himself."

Silent stared at his feet, willing his hands not to clench into fists.

"Interesting..." the rust mech mused. More sensors, from other mechs around the room, tapped and slid against Silent's armor. "I have the same kind of offer for you, little mechlet. Run messages and take care of a few problems for me and I'll pay you in energon or credits, whatever you prefer." The mech chuckled. "You'll be a handy mech to have around, Silent...after all, a mech whom cannot speak will tell no tales to my former comrades, the Autobots."

Silent saw the rust-colored mech reach toward him and steeled himself not to do more than jump when he grasped his chin, jerking his head up so their gazes met. Those yellow optics burned in a way that Silent suddenly understood; this mech was insane. A shiver chilled his fuel tanks and the urge to jerk away became almost unbearable. No wonder everyone in the room kept a sensor on this mech...they needed to know when to duck. Silent fought not to let his visor pale in fear, though he knew the other mech could no doubt feel the trembling he could not control.

"Hmph...so you're intelligent enough to fear me. Good." He let go, narrowing his optics and settling back comfortably in his chair. "You look very familiar. Were you ever an Autobot, cast out, perhaps, for not flattering your superior with praise?"

Silent immediately shook his head in vehement denial, disgust twisting his features before he was able to school them back into neutrality.

"That helmet and visor design remind me of something I saw...in the engineering department, perhaps."

Silent dropped his gaze to the floor once again, trying to ignore the way his fuel tanks were twisting with unease. _If he says one more thing_ , a quiet voice hissed in the back of his mind, a vicious one he had never been aware of before, _that even hints he knows what he is talking about, I will kill him and everyone else in this place. And I will do it gladly_. Silent shook his head slightly, trying to get the hungry voice out of his head. Fortunately, the rust mech took it as another denial of ever having been an Autobot.

"Ah, well. Thrash, take this mechlet down to Wrench after getting him some energon. The former CMO of the Autobots should be able to tell if this one is a spy, or simply a design flaw."

"Yes, sir," Thrash murmured, stepping forward to set a hand on Silent's shoulder and steer him away from the table.


	3. Chapter 3

The bad thing about having good quality low-grade after a long time of not having any energon at all was his body tended to try to force him into recharge, to let his systems absorb the energon more easily. Currently he was fighting not to yawn, following Thrash deeper into the complex, feeling the energon humming peacefully through his fuel lines. He wasn't so distracted, though, that he didn't keep track of the turns they made, or the sections they passed through. It just took concentration to record it all to his memory banks. Such concentration, in fact, that he nearly missed it when Thrash came to a stop in front of a door more dented than the rest, barely keeping himself from crashing into the larger mech's back. He took a quick step back, thinking a mech with a name like 'Thrash' couldn't have a stable temper, but noticed the blue and white mech's attention was fixed completely on the still-closed door. Silent's curiosity perked once more; Trash seemed to be more afraid of whomever was behind that door than he had been of the leader. Finally, Trash growled to himself and pushed the door open, attempting to affect a confident swagger.

"Wrench, the boss wants--"

"You can tell Vitriolic to shove it up his aft," a quiet voice growled from the back of the dark room. The only point of light was the glow of a monitor screen facing away from them, which cast harsh highlights onto the well-worn face of the room's occupant. "Tell him that I don't care what he does, I'm not gonna patch up his lackies for stupidity anymore. Legit damage gotten honestly, yes, but if they scrape themselves up due to ignorance, they're on their own."

"He wants this young mech checked over," Thrash pushed on, his expression melting into one of forced irritation. Silent, after entering, edged to the side so his back was to the wall on the other side of the door. He could tell Thrash was just about terrified still and didn't want to get in the way if the mech in the darkness provided the reason why the large mech was so scared. "So shut it and ge--"

A laser scalpel came flying out of the dark and buried itself in the wall. When Thrash straitened it was clear that if he hadn't ducked, the scalpel would be in his right optic. Silent, confident the dark hid his expression, allowed himself to smirk.

"I don't want to hear it from you," the quiet voice said with an irritated sigh. "Leave, you pathetic waste of spare parts, before I put effort into my aim."

Thrash was gone before Silent had time to turn and look. The lights in the room flicked to a dim glow, revealing a large, boxy mech in shades of brown and green. The only bright points on his form were a somewhat faded yet otherwise meticulously kept red medic's cross on his right shoulder and ice blue optics, which were fixed intently on Silent. The medic's sensors whispered past his armor, almost gentle in their examination. Silent stood prone, not wanting to earn the medic's wrath, though by the stiffness with which he moved now, it was hard to believe he had thrown the scalpel still quivering in the wall.

"Primus but you're a young one," the medic said, speculation thick in his tone. "Bring that scalpel over here and let's have a talk."

Silent turned and carefully dislodged the scalpel from the wall, carrying it over to the much older mech after turning it off and offering it to him, handle first.

"Well, your manners are a definite improvement on previous recruits," he grunted, accepting the scalpel back with a nod of thanks. The medic flipped it up, caught it, and tossed it with incredible accuracy into a tray half way across the room. As soon as it landed a ripple shot out, causing Silent to give a sharp shiver; a dampening field. Nothing would be able to monitor this room from the outside...not even a mech's most basic audio detectors. If they tried, all they would hear would be mechs murmuring quietly, nothing coherent enough to be made out. The visuals from the cameras would simply not exist.

"Now," Wrench said, turning on Silent with a jerk, "what the slag're you doin' in a place like this? What assignment are you on?" He rose and circled around as Silent gave him a bewildered look, unable to fathom what the mech was talking about. "Well? Speak up!"

Silent shook his head, darting toward the door, only to be grabbed by a doorwing and roughly hauled back. A cry of pain burst from his vocalizer unbidden; the thin metal on his doorwings was sensitive! No one had ever touched them before, that he could remember, much less yanked on one. The hand instantly let go, allowing Silent to set his back to the door, once he found it was locked. Wrench's expression had shifted to one of shock.

"Drones don't feel pain," he muttered, watching Silent watch him from across the room. "You've got the build and the optic glass of one of those _things_ but maybe..."

_What things? One of what? Say it if you know! I can only kill you if you say it! Say it!_ The hungry, hissing voice was back, causing Silent to shake his head once more in an effort to get rid of it. The voice scared him. It wanted to hurt those who knew ... something ... whatever that something was. It wanted to murder them. Wrench's scanners slipped past his armor again and the voice in the back of Silent's mind growled when they discovered his spark chamber. The medic drew back slightly, shook his own head and walked over to draw some energon out of a cupboard, sitting down at his desk with a groaning sigh.

"I'm sorry, sparkling. Here...c'mere and have some energon. I won't grab you again, or yell, I promise. I thought you were something-- someone else."

Silent found himself slowly crossing the room, the draw of the energon overriding everything else, including the hissing voice in the back of his mind. He nodded his thanks as he carefully took what was offered, backing off a bit to drink it. It was thicker than he was used to...richer. It tasted good. When Wrench didn't do anything other than sip his own energon, poured from the same container, and read a pad, Silent edged forward, eventually relaxing enough to take a careful seat on the offered chair.

"Good mechlet," Wrench said softly, offering the young mech a kind smile. "As you've probably guessed, I've no love for the mechs, here. If you want to talk to me, I won't tell them you can. Your vocalizer looks perfectly fine from here, anyway."

Silent shook his head slightly, frowning when it caused the world to tilt uneasily around him. He gripped the chair, setting the empty energon mug carefully on the desk so he could use both hands to brace himself. It was like the effect of having low-grade after a long time without, only much, much stronger...he couldn't keep his visor powered he was so tired. None of his sensors could detect anything wrong with either him or the energon...he was just _so tired_.

"Easy now," he heard Wrench saying, as the medic helped him to a berth. "Sometimes mid-grade will take mechs like that when they have it for the first time."

That made sense, Silent's tired processor agreed. He curled up on his side, back to the wall, dented doorwing tucked securely under the other one. He was safe, here, besides...a medic wouldn't hurt him...the young mech sighed softly and let recharge claim him.


	4. Chapter 4

Wrench watched the young mech slip into recharge and sighed himself, shaking his head. He was sure this was one of those Striker drones Sentinel and the High Council had commissioned from the Engineering Department...even if he didn't know what he was himself. No, he thought as he set the gray and black mech into medical stasis, at least a small part of this mech knew what he was and was ready to murder anyone who said they did as well. "Hopefully that means he killed that creatorless fragger Breaker, though I wouldn't be so lucky, would I?"

But how had he gotten a spark chamber, much less a spark? The plans he had seen, before he had resigned from the Army in protest, hadn't included either. Once he was sure the young mech wouldn't be waking up any time soon, he moved him to the surgical bench and set to work detaching his helmet, briefly getting hung up on the extremely delicate circuitry which made up the youngster's horns. Deciding to leave the horn covers in place, he simply detached the helmet from the horns and set it aside, carefully attaching an access cable to the young mech's processor. "Now," he muttered, moving to his desk, "let's see what you are..."

Stubborn determination and an unease building from his spark prompted Wrench to keep trying when his first dozen attempts to access the young mech's processor failed. After a mega-cycle worth of work he was just about to jerk the leads from his access ports as a lost cause when a soft voice began to speak. It wasn't the young gray and black mech, nor was it anyone he had ever met in the gang. It was, he realized, a recording, coming from an until now hidden part of the young mech's processor. It had activated on his last attempt, though he hadn't been aware of it.

_Hopefully this message is being seen by an honest medic, though why one would be attempting to access this mech's processor I don't know. My name is Lock. I am one of the scientists drafted to work on a top-secret project commissioned by the High Council and Sentinel Prime called the Striker Project. The ultimate goal of the Striker project was to create a black ops drone to assassinate Megatron. It was thought that without Megatron, the Decepticons would be easily rounded up._

Wrench shook his head slowly, keying in the visual feed to see a worn mech, primarily silver with green highlights to his robot mode. His paint hadn't been looked after for a long time and by the way he held himself, he was in dire need of a medic's care.

 _I'm probably committing treason by recording this. But if it means this sparkling's life is spared, I don't care if I'm killed. This mech's designation is Striker 2727. He's the twenty seventh drone in the twenty seventh batch of Striker drones. Except you've probably noticed-- he's not a drone. Following this recording are memory blocks, mine and his, of how he came to be free in Tyrest, though he no longer has access to these memories. I admit I'm no engineer or medic, I created the programming block through guesswork. If I botched the job, please correct my work. For his sake, if nothing else._ The mech smiled and straitened slightly, his expression wistful. _He deserves a fresh start, so please do not give him access to these memories. I almost wish I could see the kind of mech the 27 will become._

The recording went dark, but there was a small slowly blinking icon in the lower right hand corner of Wrench's vision. When he selected it, one of the memory tracks began to play.

***

_File 1 of 3 now playing_

***

Lock's tanks cramped sharply again and he barely held back a groan, gripping the edge of his console to keep himself upright in his chair. Thankfully he'd managed to keep down enough oil and low-grade to keep his vision from swimming-- if he wasn't able to perform his duties, who knew what would happen to the 27?

"Axle, sir, the 27 is deviating from its mission parameters, again."

Lock did his best not to glare at the mech making the announcement; there was no way the engineer could know that the 27 needed to draw as little attention to itself as possible. The scientist tried not to groan; the 27 had promised him to follow orders.

"Again?" Breaker asked, sitting up from where he had been slouched in his chair. "Damnit, that thing's always been buggy."

"I'm not so sure it's a bug," Axle replied, bringing the radar tracking the 2727 up to the towering main screen, which dominated one wall from floor to ceiling. "Someone tell me where it's headed."

"Praxus," a voice called from the other end of the room. Lock gritted his jaw, keeping his head down as he typed furiously.

 _Come back_ , he ordered, _27, they've spotted you. Come back, now!_

 _No_ , was the response, _people are getting hurt. I need to help. I will be fine. Just say I am unresponsive...that I detected Megatron. The Decepticons are there. Sensor glitch. Something. I_ need _to do this_.

"The Decepticons are attacking Praxus," Axle said in a bored tone, tossing the pad with the breaking news onto a desk. His casual disregard for the mechs and femmes who lived in the city obviously bothered more than one of the mechs in the room, but none of them said a word. They all valued their own lives too much.

"While that is horrible," Breaker said, "The 2727 shouldn't care unless Megatron's there. Is he?"

"Not according to the reports from the tactician core," Axle replied, popping an energon goody into his mouth. "Primus take the thing, Breaker, I want inside its processor. When are you going to let me dismantle it, before or after the project's funding is cut?"

"It's taken care of every target we've set before it," Breaker objected. "Unusually, yes, but it's the most successful drone yet."

"Then we download its program before we dismantle it," Axle negotiated. "C'mon, Break. Isn't Sentinel leaking enough acid down your neck?"

"No, that's you, trying your toxins out on my scientists, you aft," Breaker grumbled. "Need I remind you that the only reason you're part of this project is that your expertise on black operations--"

"Exactly," Axle hissed, his tone pleased as he ate another goody. "You need me. Lock. Go get the 2727 and have it ready in the main engineering lab. We'll be moving on to batch 28 in the morning."

***

_File 2 of 3 now playing_

***

Bodies filled the clearing, felled by the shards of exploding crystals. He had never seen the Crystal Gardens intact, but judging by how beautiful they were now, ruined by fires and blast craters, they must have been utterly glorious. The scent of mechfluid was thick, but he had processed worse through his olfactory sensors.

It was one thing to smell mech fluid on the ground. It was quite another to smell it on your own hands. The first time he'd realized what he had done, he'd purged his tanks to undercharge. He'd killed countless mechs since then. It didn't effect him much anymore.

No one was moving. According to his sensors, there wasn't a single life-sign in the whole city. Yet-- Yet-- Something drew him on. A rhythmic pounding held him enthralled, demanding he find its source. Rhythm had always taken him that way and he had been unable to explain the way it spoke to him to his caretaker, Lock. At least, that was how Lock had described himself.

He stopped when the pounding became fainter. He was moving away from it. Frowning he stopped and turned, listening intently. There, it was there, in what had been what looked like a school. Carefully, as his hands were as sensitive as a medic's, he shifted the rubble until he could haul the mech out, helping him over to sit on what had been some kind of decorative sculpture as he choked and coughed the soot out of his intakes.

Only when the mech, who other than helmet shape was almost his exact mirror image, looked up and locked gazes with him, pale blue meeting vivid cerulean, the back of one hand running over his lips to clear them of what had come from his intakes, did Striker 2727 realize what he had done. In saving this mech's life, he'd killed him. Instantly, he drew back into the shadows.

"Wait," the mech gasped, placing a surprisingly clean white hand against his own white chest. Striker's ebony hand mirrored the move out of some kind of instinct, though the shadows masked the gesture. "Wait, who are you? Did any of the others make it?"

"No--," 27 murmured, unable to understand why he had been reluctant to say the word. It was information, pure and simple. A report. No one else in the city was alive. Yet he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

"I am Prowl," the black and white mech said, his pale blue optics still fixed on the Striker's own, despite the visor in the way. How did he know?

"I am Striker 2727," he found himself saying, then clamped down on his voclaizer in horror. "They will kill you," he blurted, "if they know you know of me. Forget me."

"You just saved my life," Prowl told him, a frown marring his handsome features. "I can not simply forget you."

"You have to," Striker implored, taking another step back. "Please. I am not supposed to be here. Forget me."

"You are not making sense--"

"I know. I am sorry. I have to go."

***

_File 3 of 3 now playing_

***

Considering the outcome, it was either Primus or luck that Lock hadn't made it all the way to Praxus before his fuel tanks outright rejected the energon he had taken that day. Now, leaning as he was against an abandoned building with one hand with the other pressed against his aching tanks, he was sure he had been Axle's latest test subject for his toxins. Typically when one purged, what came up was the same color as what had gone down. His purge had been clear. He probably needed to go see a medic, or at least attempt to beg Axle for an antidote, despite the fact that it was up for grabs whether the Head of Special Operations for the Autobots had made one.

"Lock? Are you all right?" A quiet voice asked from the shadows. The scientist squinted, forcing his optics into focus to see Striker 27, his expression worried. "You look horrible."

"I look as good as I feel, then," the scientist sighed, straitening. "C'mon, mech. New orders. Let's go."

The 27 wordlessly came to Lock's side, gently slinging his arm over his shoulders to help him walk. The trip took almost a mega-cycle, down into the depths of Cybertron, past the Dark to the edge of the Null Zone. The room Lock was heading for had been an accidental discovery when he was younger, a place where comms never worked and most sensors beyond basic audio and visual read only static. The phenomenon obviously confused the Striker, as he kept looking around uneasily.

"I do not understand," he said finally, his words carefully chosen. He watched Lock find the door and followed him inside, relaxing slightly when Lock did, after securing the door.

"They decided to end the 27 series," Lock told him grimly. "Move on to the 28."

The 27 regarded him quietly, following Lock's direction to sit on the repair bench. "So you are going to disassemble me?"

"No," Lock denied, taking a moment to rest. "I won't let them murder a sparkling."

"They have that prerogative," the 27 said, his voice still quiet. "I belong to the Striker project."

"When we're through here, you won't belong to anyone," Lock murmured. "Lay down."

"Yes, sir," Striker said, automatically doing as he was told. Lock picked up some tools and began to remove tracking beacons and everything else he could find that might identify the young mech to anyone who had been involved in the Striker Project.

"What is this all about, Lock? I still do not understand."

"You have a spark," Lock said absently, setting the tools aside and closing the panel he'd been working in.

"And that is bad?"

"No, it's a wonder, my friend. A wonder and a mystery. But Axle and Breaker..." Lock trailed off, concentrating on where he was working in Striker's chest plate. "They don't want a sentient mech, they want drones that they can send into war without having to deal with things like morals and objections from the drones themselves."

"But that means--"

"What it means is that we need to get you away from Axle and Breaker before they murder you."

"They will know who did this," Striker murmured

Lock paused as his tanks ground painfully again. "Axle has already poisoned me. But it's not important."

"How can you say that?"

"I can say it because it's true. Don't ask any more questions, I need to concentrate."

Striker immediately fell quiet, though a frown remained on his faceplate. Twice more Lock was forced to pause, tanks grinding and snarling, as the poison the energon had become ate through his systems. Lock was grateful that it never once occurred to Striker to ask what he was doing, not even when the scientist moved to his helm and opened a panel there, uploading a program he had designed the solar before. Finally, after an estimated two mega-cycles of work, he drew back and set his tools down with a shaky sigh.

"Here are your orders," the scientist said as firmly as he could, activating the blank_slate program he had just installed. Striker instantly focused, visor bright. "Go to Tyrest. Stay away from the Autobot Army. Do not tell anyone who you are. Do not tell anyone what you are. If anyone knows who or what you are--" Lock broke off with a gasp, his optics going dark flying to the table in a desperate attempt to keep upright through the sharpest tank cramp he had ever experienced. It felt as if his tanks were tearing in half. The rest of what he had been about to say was banished from his mind by desire to inflict the same kind of pain and misery on Axle that the mech had done to so many others. "Kill them," he whispered, his voice thready as he sank to his knees.

***

 _End of recordings_.

***


	5. Chapter 5

Wrench sat in darkness, contemplating what he had learned. At first he attempted to destroy the idea that his processor kept whispering to his spark, it made him sick to his tanks. Perhaps it was the weight of time, perhaps it was weakness of character...he didn't know what caused him to give in, his optics dimming. Maybe it was his imagination but he felt the dark in the room seep into his spark as he acknowledged the idea, allowing it to grow and build. It fed on two very conflicting emotions; the desire to do good by this young mech and the hatred he felt for those he had fallen in with. Vitriolic was the kind of mech Sentinel Prime thought he needed in his army, Wrench knew he was more suited to the mechfluid thirsty nature the Decepticons seemed to have. The gang leader was preying on the good mechs and femmes of the lower city...he needed to be stopped. And here, as if Primus sent, was the instrument Wrench needed to stop him.

"I know it won't matter much to say it," he murmured finally, raising a hand to wipe the optic fluid from his face, "but I am so, so sorry. The least I can do is give you a truly blank slate after you're done with this work, like Lock intended. Hopefully you'll never be used like this again."

The medic set to work repairing the youngster, refitting the young mech to the best of his ability. Having been personal medic for Nova Prime, his best ability was very good indeed. A fresh coat of paint finished his work, making sure the young mech would fit in much better with the mechs in Iacon. He replaced the subdued gray and matte black with a sharp, glossy black and white, adding a professional wax job to make sure he would blend well with the Autobots. Working on Lock's blank_slate program until just before dawn, the old mech corrected the improper coding lines that had been caused by inexperience as well as the scientist's no doubt deteriorating mental state. He needed the Striker personality for a single task, the completion of which would key the program's collapse, destroying the split personality forever and leaving Silent in full command of his facilities, without the horrific memories but with all of the skills he had been programmed with. It was a very complicated program and Wrench could afford no mistakes.

In the darkness granted just before dawn, Wrench sat back, hands shaking. The point of no return had passed long ago. Vitriolic would be sending someone, probably his right-hand thug Thrash, to see why he had kept the new recruit so long. Carefully cleaning his hands, the old mech made one last check of his work, uploading the new blank_slate program to destroy every vestige of the old one. Only when he was sure his work was without flaw did he set the second stage of his plan into motion by undoing the medical stasis and simultaneously activating the hologram of Vitriolic he had built.

"It was a project Sentinel Prime and the Autobot High Council commissioned," he said, as if unaware Silent was awake. Though, in the strictest sense, he wasn't. The Striker was. "Drones, called Strikers, who were expertly trained in every aspect of intelligence, black ops, counter-intelligence, sabotage, infiltration, demolitions, thievery, fighting, sharpshooting... the ultimate and perfect agent, if only because none of the drones had any kind of morals."

"Indeed?" The hologram, which scanned as the real thing, replied thoughtfully. "I knew I recognized his build..."

"You have what you have always wanted; a very powerful tool that will follow your every command," Wrench stated. "You can use him against the Autobots, the Decepticons, anyone you wished if you programmed him right. Everyone - every single mech and femme in this gang - would respect and fear you if you told them what you were keeping as a pet."

"I will tell them," the gang leader murmured, tone smug, as the hologram turned and headed for the door.

***

The fact that he didn't immediately know where he was made no difference to the Striker 2727 when he woke in the darkness. He simply waited until his memory aligned with reality, slipping off the table silently the moment Wrench turned his back. He flipped the nearest weapon, a laser scalpel into his hand.

The irony of using it in the exact opposite of its intended purpose was lost on him.

He ghosted up behind Wrench, twisting his arm behind him while slipping his hand over the old medic's mouth to prevent him from making any noise. "Because you repaired me, I will make this as painless as I can," he whispered into the mech's audio.

"Thanks," Wrench grunted around the hand. "I'm sorry."

"Do not be," the Striker replied. "If the program works, Silent will be able to live out his life without knowing I ever existed. It is preferable than the way it was before."

With that statement, he spun the old mech around and squarely met his gaze before thrusting the scalpel into his chest, the blade sinking into Wrench's spark for a single moment before the old medic's optics went dark and his body sucked all of the current from his form in an attempt to keep functioning in his spark's absence. That attempt failed, as it always did, leaving the body a gray and empty husk. Carefully extracting the blade, Striker eased the husk onto the repair bench, making sure not to make a sound. On his way to the door he spotted a part that Wrench had replaced in the repair which had _Striker 2727_ etched into the side. He picked it up and tossed it into a small furnace, watching only until the glyph melted into obscurity before continuing out the door.

Thrash was leaning against the wall nearby, chatting with a slightly smaller mech. It was clear by the way he was running his hand down the mech's shoulder that he was propositioning him. Striker was on Thrash in three quick and ghostly steps, plunging the scalpel into the mech's back, grimacing when the tip snapped off inside the thug's spark case because of the thickness of his armor. Before the other mech could do more than blink in shock Striker was on him as well, ending his existence with a shiv to the throat. He made sure the mech was dead, straitened and took off, killing every single person he came across. Femme, mech, sparklet, old-timer, it didn't matter as long as they wore the gang's identifying black stripe somewhere on their body. He'd heard Wrench telling Vitriolic, and no doubt the rust-colored mech had wasted no time in telling everyone in the gang.

It would take too long to figure out who had and hadn't been told.

Striker killed everyone.


	6. Chapter 6

_He came awake all at once, screams echoing in his audios. He jerked upright with a gasp, squeezing his optics shut in an attempt to rid his processor of a flood of horrific images. It worked; moments later both the screams and the visions of endless killing vanished. Nano-clicks after that he forgot they had ever existed as recharge claimed him once again._

He came awake all at once, confusion washing over him. Even without powering on his visor he could tell he was no longer on the berth he had slipped into recharge on. His doorwing had ached then, his whole body ached now, though not with damage. With exhaustion. An internal alarm went off, startling him; he was overheating. For some reason his intakes weren't online. He took a breath through his mouth and immediately gagged on the taste of the air. Stagnant. Stale. And with a sickly sweet tinge, like crushed crystals. His systems forced him to keep panting, though he was able to keep his olfactory sensors offline...if the air tasted so wrong, he didn't want to think what it would smell like.

Silent slowly powered on his visor and instantly his processor attempted to deny the images his optical sensors were feeding it. Mech fluid. Everywhere. His horrified optics found body after body, arrayed outward from his position as if they had been trying to run...from him. A glance down at himself showed hands coated thickly with mech fluid, up to the elbows. The young white and black mech put one on the floor where he was sitting with the half formed idea to get his back to a wall as quickly as he could but it slipped in more wetness on the ground. He laid on his back, shivering in fear and revulsion and feeling droplets of moisture, dislodged by the jerk of his fall, slip off his form. His processor attempted to form questions but was stalled half way by the inability of his spark to comprehend what might have happened.

A need to get as far away from the taste in his mouth drove him to his feet, taking pains in trying not to step in any of the pools of mech fluid or on any bodies as he attempted to reach a door- any door. Only when he reached the door and opened it to behold more lifeless bodies did he realize that he was deep in the complex with no clear idea of how to get out. Panic swept through him as he backed away from the second room, a flash of movement from the corner of his vision startling him badly. He wheeled, but the room was unchanged- bodies were still lifeless, each with its own single stab to either the chest or the back, directly over the spark chamber. The movement came again, and Silent saw what it had been, giving a small sigh in relief. No insane killer come to finish the job, simply a door on the other side of the room was slowly closing and opening again when its sensors detected something preventing it from closing completely. Swallowing hard, Silent made his way back across the room to make a rather gruesome discovery; the door was unable to close due to some mech's arm blocking the threshold. After slipping through the door, Silent gingerly reached down and eased the mech's arm out of the way, so that the door could close completely.

It was only after the slight whooshing sound of the door opening and closing was gone did he realize he could hear distant whispers. Hearing the whispering brought back the memory of the hissing, hungry voice, chilling him to the core. It sounded slightly similar to that, so he simply followed the sound of the voices, moving with noiseless steps along the halls. Instead of the owners of the voices, he found a wash rack, which was thankfully free of both bodies and mech fluid. After scrubbing all of the mech fluid off to get rid of the grimy feeling crawling along his armor, Silent dried himself and peeked out into the hall once more, trying to see if it was safe for him to move on. Once again he jerked when he saw something move, scrambling back when the movement was accompanied by a whisper. Unlike the others, this one was clear.

_Over here!_

The voice sounded familiar. Wrench...no...not the old medic. Someone whose name or face he couldn't bring to mind. Silent stayed in the wash rack for as long as he dared before shooting a glance out into the hall again. No movement, no whispers. Emboldened, he slipped out and began to head back the way he came, only to freeze when the whispers started again. Unlike the clear whisper from before, the words were impossible to make out, but one didn't need to understand words to hear the malice and anger in their tones.

Ghosts, his frightened processor told him, ghosts of the mechs whom had been killed- and they thought he had done the killing! A sound of protest rose from his vocalizer but died before reaching his lips; the whispers had vanished, but Silent could feel the presence of the near seventy mechs and femmes growing closer as they focused on him. For the barest of moments he hunkered down where he was, wide optics fixed on some unknown point in front of him as he shook in fear. Another whisper startled him out of his frozen terror; this one was from behind him and though urgent, was kind.

_This way_ , the whisper insisted, _hurry, mechlet!_

It came from a door that he was positive had been closed before was now open, the shadows within seeming to shift in urgency. His shell-shocked mind could return no alternative and he bolted in that direction, slipping through the door and into the shadows beyond without a second thought. He followed the vague whispers and slight movements on the edges of his vision until he was blinded by a sudden light. He froze, taking a few moments to allow his optics to adjust before he realized what he was seeing; an alley. Outside. Oh thank Primus. He took several deep breaths to rid himself of the taste of the air inside before transforming, sliding carefully into the traffic heading across town.


	7. Chapter 7

The rumors spread as rumors do through a city which desperately needed something to concentrate on other than the impending war, though the difference between finding a mass grave of almost a hundred mechs and femmes was debatable.  To Silent's unending relief, no rumor spread that a smallish white and black mech had escaped from a side door and disappeared into the city. No one really wanted to know the truth of the matter, either. They simply enjoyed discussing it and what they thought was really what had happened. The only fact anyone knew for sure was that a prominent gang was gone.

It had been a handful of solar cycles since Silent had bolted from the Us base and he hadn't heard any strange voices from deep in his processor. He had been able to avoid the notice of both the new Autobot patrols through the entire city, as well as the patrols the Gentlemechs gang was running through the lower city. Those same rumor mongers chatting about the destruction of the Us gang also said that it was better to get caught by the Autobots than the Gentlemechs; with the Autobots, you were simply sent to the front line to be cannon fodder. Mechs grabbed by the Gentlemechs were never seen again.

The combined patrols meant that the streets were pretty much clear of the refugees which had choked them before. Those lucky enough to have found places to stay and work only ventured outside for said work or a trip to the nearest energon bar to spend what little credits they had earned with their hard work. Those who hadn't found work or a place to stay simply vanished.

Silent's mysterious luck ran out; he wasn't able to find any work. The bars didn't want him due to his lack of intimidating stature and because his face was too nice besides. No one dared use messengers anymore since they couldn't guarantee who would be allowed to see their sensitive information and who wouldn't. Now they trusted it to the waves; at least then they could know the information had reached the right person, even if all waves were monitored by the Autobots.

Seven solars was the longest he had ever been without energon. Simple recharge couldn't sustain him much longer, though he wasn't yet desperate enough to be sent out to the front lines for a ration of energon, nor did he dare approach the Gentlemechs. Primus only knew what they would do with him. Currently he was sitting in an alley, curled, chin on his knees, resting for the trip back to his nest. Lost in thought, he almost missed the subtle scent stealing over his olfactory sensors; low-grade energon. He jerked his head up, gaze automatically focusing on the can, the fingers loosely holding it...he jerked his optics back into alignment and focused on the whole mech. Large, boxy but slim, long fingers, articulate hands, colors mostly white with a silver chevron and red hands. Red marks on his shoulders but Silent's processor was far too fixed on the thought of energon to process what the marks were. Only the fact that the mech was not combat built and his stride was none to steady mattered.

Silent pushed himself to his feet and slipped around the side of the building, noticing the mostly white mech didn't have any proximity alarms set. He also didn't have any passive sensors 'feeling' the buildings, mechs and air around him...such an easy and tempting mark... Silent was moving into the hunt before he even processed his own intent, not that he stopped once he had. He was hungry. This mech's systems, while not fully energized, had at least fueled in the last solar. He probably wouldn't even miss the energon...

Silent's fuel tanks were driving him, coherent thoughts gone. He made sure he was loose and limber, out of the sight of the white mech, then took off, risking the energy it took to run in order to build up the momentum needed to ram his shoulder into the mech's lower back, snatching the can at the same time. He was already half way down the down the alley, half the energon can in his fuel tanks, when he heard the uncomfortably sharp crack of the mech's helm hitting the ground. The sound brought him to an abrupt stop, the can half way to his lips.

The young white and black mech froze, listening. Nothing. He turned, ready to bolt if the mech was trying to trick him, but the white mech was simply laying prone, optics dark in his haggard face. Nearby laughter caused him to tense and slip to the edge of the building to peek out onto the street. What he saw sent him back to the fallen mech's side to lift him onto his back and duck into the shadows; a group of mechs known to be in the Gentlemechs gang was approaching. Silent wasn't about to let the mech he had put into danger be caught up by the gang.

With the low-grade soaking into his systems, Silent watched the mechs pass by, reaching up to press his hand against the mech's mouth when he groaned softly. The white and black mech glanced over at the mech's face, resting on his shoulder, noting his optics were still dark-- and abruptly realizing that the marks on the mechs shoulders...were medic's crosses. Now even more determined to do right by the medic and knowing that the group of Gentlemechs wouldn't leave the area for at least a few mega-cycles, Silent slipped down the alley as quietly as he could with his burden, heading for his nest. Once he got there he laid the medic as gently as he could in his 'berth', which was really little more than a pile of cleanish packing cloth. It was better than the ground, if only because if was softer. Once the white mech was situated on his back, Silent did his best to gently pull the minor dent out of his helmet before settling back to wait, keeping a sharp watch for more Gentlemech patrols.

It was a mega cycle and a half before the medic began to wake, shifting slightly on the packing cloth. Having finished the can of low-grade by demand of his starved systems, Silent could only watch as the white and red mech grumbled himself awake. "Where...?" he asked tiredly, optics dim. Silent found himself wondering exactly when this mech had last gotten any recharge.

"You fell," the young white and black mech murmured, surprised that he no longer felt the compulsion not to speak to anyone. "A group from the Gentlemechs gang was comin'--"

"Chop-shop parts dealers," the medic grumbled.

"Exactly," Silent agreed. "I couldn't let a medic get grabbed by 'em."

"...thanks, I guess." The white and red mech tried to sit up, only for his hands to fly to the armor over his fuel tanks with a forced gasp from his vocalizer. Silent's sensors sprang to life and pin-pointed the area, processing belatedly that this was why the mech had been so unsteady on his feet before; he had acid burns in his fuel tanks. It had been a mercy, taking the energon from him before he could drink it and aggravated the burns.

"You need some oil," Silent found himself saying softly, "an' rest. Soon's the Gentlemechs're gone--"

"What I need is some energon and for someone to smack Sentinel good 'n hard for sendin' civilians t'the front line, then havin' the gall to demand to know why the casualty rate is so slaggin' high!"

Silent raised an optic ridge at the outburst, particularly when the medic forced himself to sit up again, the only indication he was in any kind of pain this time was the pale color of his optics. They regarded each other for a few moments, Silent feeling the medic's sensors wash over him, until a sound from farther down the alley made them both jump. The medic stayed where he was, though his optics flicked toward the sound and Silent ghosted to the entrance of the shelter, looking out to see the same group of Gentlemechs kicking apart the scattered scrap heap shelters in the alley. They were hauling out any mechs they found and strapping them into immoblizer claws so they couldn't escape and herding them into a group. Silent frowned and turned, approaching the medic after subspacing a few random items from around his nest. "They're comin'. We gotta move."

"Why'd you bring me here?"

"I already said, 'cause the Gentlemechs were comin--"

"Why didn't you take me inside?" the medic pressed, though he let Silent help him to his feet. "To your room, where you stay?"

"Don't got one," Silent replied, helping the white and red mech to the front of the small shelter to peek out again. At the moment all of the mechs were concentrating on keeping their current captives subdued and paying little attention elsewhere. Signaling the medic to be quiet, Silent helped him quietly down the alley and around the corner, onto the sidewalk of a mostly empty street. "Probably be best if you went home, though."

He didn't answer at first, causing Silent to glance over at him to see the white and red mech was concentrating on keeping his feet. It was too risky to stop, though, so all Silent could do to help him was slow their pace. "What's...a mechlet like you doin' out here, alone?" he asked quietly, after a while of walking.

Silent, having more paid attention to whether they were being followed than where they were going, glanced at the mech again. "Work's scarce," he said after a bit.

"Where's your creator?"

"Don't know." Silent gave the medic a look. "Where's yours? Why're you down here, when you're a' Autobot? Don't you gotta home? Why're your taks so messed up? What's your name?"

The medic tensed, his optics flaring in anger...but shook his head and let out a breath after a moment. "Right, right. Fair enough. Home's in the Autobase, I'm a medic, if you couldn't tell from the crosses. Name's Ratchet. Should be enough t'let you figure out the rest, if you're half as smart as you seem."


	8. Chapter 8

The sound called to him. It always had. He yearned to follow, to learn, to understand _why_ it had such a hold on his spark. But, like always, he had something else which required his attention. Or did he? He glanced at Ratchet and was surprised to find the medic watching him.

"What?" He asked, frowning. "Somethin' wrong?"

"Like music?" The medic asked in return.

"Music?" Silent tried to keep the word questioning instead of reverent, but from the way medic's expression shifted to a more easily read amusement, it was clear he hadn't succeeded. The youngster tried to be irritated but with the sound still echoing in his audios, soothing him, easing gently past his armor...

"Mmhm. C'mon. Turn here. I've a place for--"

Silent stopped short, taking a step away from the medic and raising his hands defensively. "I ain't joinin' any kinda group you got in mind," he said, "an' I think you'd better go on your own from here. Should be safe enough."

"I'm no recruitment officer," Ratchet snapped, stumbling at the abrupt departure of his support. He managed to keep his feet, which spoke to either the speed of his recovery or that he had been dealing with the acid burns for so long he was used to the pain. Silent attempted to convince himself sternly that he didn't care which it was. "Slag, you don't wanna be a' Autobot? Fine with me; you're too smart for it anyway. But if you expect to survive," the medic jabbed a finger in Silent's direction, "you'll need a home. Energon. And you've already told me you don't have either."

"I'll find a job." Though outwardly he was defiant and assured, inwardly the young mech was puzzled; he didn't really want to leave Ratchet's company. The medic, while gruff and abrasive, seemed to genuinely care about his well being and above that, he seemed to _listen_. Because of that, Silent felt compelled to speak, like he hadn't for anyone else he had met. A hand landed gently on his shoulder but instead of jerking away, he only allowed himself to start, looking up into the older mech's pale gaze.

"I know your life couldn't've been a walk in a crystal garden, with the wear you've got on your systems," the medic said softly. "But at some point, mechlet, you've gotta trust someone."

"Why's it gotta be you?" Silent asked quietly, feeling something he never had before; alone. He didn't like the feeling.

"It doesn't," Ratchet pointed out. "But out of all the mechs in the city, while I'm not the most pristine, shiny example of a decent citizen, I'm probably one of the few who doesn't care what you could or couldn't do for me."

Caught entirely off guard, Silent just stared. "You don't want anything from me?" He demanded.

"Not a damn thing," Ratchet replied.

"I'm the one who knocked you down an' took your energon," Silent told him.

"Imagine my surprise when I saw you'd also saved me instead of selling me to the Gentlemechs for more energon," the medic shot back. "You're quite the piece of work. But you seem to be a good youngster at spark. You deserve better than a short'n brutal life on the street."

"An' you can give it to me?" Silent wanted to know.

"Not really." The white and red mech shrugged. "But I know a mech who might be able to, if he can get through that hard helm of yours to whatever it is you think with."

The young white and black mech scrutinized the medic's expression, trying to detect any sign the medic was deceiving him. All he saw was pain, exhaustion and what he thought might be a well hidden desperation...but what was he desperate for? "Why are you trying so hard to get me off the street?" He asked quietly, meeting the medic's gaze again.

Ratchet frowned and though his mouth opened slightly, it was a few minutes before he actually spoke. "I lose a lot of mechs on my operating table simply because they're too far gone for me to save by the time I get to them," he murmured finally. "All I can do is dose 'em up on painkiller and try t'ease their passing."

"So you _do_ want somethin' from me," Silent murmured, pulling Ratchet's arm over his shoulder and beginning to help him down the street again. "You just want me t'be the one you were able t'save."

"You're smart for a bitlet," Ratchet muttered after a few moment's pause. "I also have no idea why I told you all that."

"Dunno." Silent shrugged slightly. "But it sounded like you needed t'say it."

"Too smart for your own good," Ratchet grumbled. "Better get you off the street before you start findin' all the low-lifes an' learnin' their life stories. Who _knows_ who you'd run across."

"You have no idea," Silent murmured, shaking his head slightly. "So, where're we goin'?"

"Down this street, to the left, a right, fourth building down," Ratchet replied, "what's your name, anyway?"

"What apartment?" Silent asked, trying to avoid the question.

"It's not an apartment," Ratchet answered, "you do have a name, don't you?"

"Not...really," Silent admitted. "If I do, I don't remember it."

It was Ratchet's turn to stare. "You're serious," he said finally with a frown. "No name? You really did just wake up in an alley with no idea who you are?"

"Yah, I really did." The young mech carefully crossed the street and took the left Ratchet had indicated, slowing when it brought them out of the lower city and into Midtown. "Are you sure this is the right way?"

"Positive. And don't worry about the Autobot patrols, you're with me. They all know me."

"That's not generally a good thing," Silent muttered, provoking a wry chuckle from the medic.

"Don't worry about it. It's just because I've repaired them all at one time or another and--"

Silent glanced over when the medic broke off, pressing one hand against his fuel tanks. "Easy," he murmured, "need a break?"

"No," Ratchet grunted, "wouldn't help. Right here."

Silent slowed even more when they turned onto the brightly lit, though empty, street. He was well aware of his battered and dirty paint as well as the dents on his companion. "Which place?" He asked softly, feeling slightly intimidated by the large homes now surrounding them. Each building would be able to hold several apartments, but it was clear that each was a single home by the gates protecting the doorways. This was nothing like the lower city, or even Tyrest.

"I take it you've never been out of the lower city before," Ratchet commented, his tone amused.

"I have, but not this direction," Silent replied quietly. "Even midtown Tyrest didn't look like this."

The medic nodded toward the next building after the one they were passing. "My friend lives there. He should be awake...he keeps a strange schedule."

The young white and black medic gazed up at the building, noting the light over the door was on, unlike most of the others on the street. For some reason, the slightly shabby exterior, compared to the exacting neatness of the other buildings, made him more comfortable with approaching so he helped Ratchet up the stairs and knocked without hesitation. Only when the faint music inside the building turned of did he realize he had heard it at all. In the next moment the door opened and he found himself gazing up at a tall finely-built mech of a generation long past...he was ancient, yes, but not old, Silent decided. Not like Wrench had been. His paint was faded with nothing more than age, to the same light orange-red color as the early morning sky. His optics were a dark cobalt blue, regarding the two mechs on his doorstep with a kindly amused expression.

"Hello there," the mech said, his voice hoarse and grating. Even with how it rasped out of the mech's vocalizer, Silent could hear that the tone was exactly on pitch. His voice had the lilt and tone of someone who must have had a beautiful baritone when he was younger. "Wha--" his optics abruptly widened and his expression shifted to worried, recognition clear on his features. He stepped aside, waving them in. "Ratchet--"

"I'm okay," Ratchet sighed, doing his best to straighten even as Silent helped him inside. "Just tired--"

"He's got acid burns in his tanks," Silent felt obliged to point out, looking around for somewhere the medic could lay down. Everything seemed far too clean...he looked to their host, the question clear on his face.

"I am well aware of his condition...he has had them for some time. Never as bad as this, however. Here," the mech murmured, motioning to an empty couch. "Lay him there, gently."

Ratchet made a soft noise of discomfort as he eased down with Silent's help onto his left side, optics going dark. Once the medic was settled, the mech slipped into the next room with a quiet grace which Silent couldn't help but envy. When their host returned, he settled on the edge of the couch, gently tipping Ratchet's head up so he could sip from the container of oil placed carefully at his lips.

"Now," the mech murmured, still in his rasping, yet quiet tone, "who might you be, young mech?"

"He's a friend," Ratchet said, saving Silent from having to answer. "Stopped me from havin' more energon than my tanks could handle, then protected me from the Gentlemech parts-dealers."

"Did he now?" The mech's optic ridges rose as he set the oil aside, turning to give Silent a piercing look with his dark, unreadable optics. "Thank you very much, young mech. However, there seems to be more to this story."

"Yah," Ratchet sighed, relaxing back on the couch.

Silent looked around and decided to sit on the floor, even if it was also far cleaner than what he was used to. He settled with his hands on his crossed ankles, back straight as he watched the two older mechs watch him.

"The mechlet there don't know where he come from...apparently he woke up in an alley in Tyrest without even a name t'put to himself," the medic continued.

"I never said I woke up in Tyrest," Silent objected.

"No, but you did say you'd been there and that you'd come online inna alley without knowin' who you were," the medic pointed out. "It was kinda easy to put together from there."

"Enough, young ones," their host murmured with a smile. "Ratchet, rest. Your supervisor will no doubt be calling soon to find out where you are. And you, sparkling...you look as if you could do with a wash, some energon...and a name." He stood, his movements careful yet still with that soft grace. "But the latter can wait. Come, this way."

Silent came to his feet and followed, padding along without sound behind the older mech, glancing back to see Ratchet let his optic shutters close over darkened optics. "Will he be okay?" he asked quietly, looking up at the taller mech.

"Physically, most likely. Mentally...is entirely up to him." The mech stopped before a door and pushed it open to reveal a high-end washrack. "Here, use all the materials you would like. If you need any paint, let me know."

"What's your name?" Silent asked curiously.

"I am Forte. Come back into the front room when you're finished and we will find out what your spark wishes to be called." Forte smiled, gently pushing Silent into the washrack.


	9. Chapter 9

"How is he?" Ratchet asked quietly when Forte returned to the front room. The medic was sitting up, propped against the back of the couch. The older mech eased into a chair across the room, shaking his head slightly.

"Still a bit skittish. Where in the world did you find him?" Forte asked, watching his sick friend carefully.

"Exactly like I said. He knocked me down, stole my energon and saved my life." Ratchet shook his head. "You heard his voice. Willin' t'keep him here, train him?"

"Only if he is willing to be trained," Forte returned thoughtfully. "But you are correct. His voice is just about perfectly on pitch no matter what he says. If he is agreeable, I am more than willing to train him." The older mech smiled. "Still watching over me, Ratchet?"

"You need company," Ratchet told him with a frown. "This place's too big for one mech. 'Sides, he also needs a place t'be safe. You saw how young he was."

"Incredibly young. Less than a stellar-cycle old. Have you ever met a sparkling that young?"

"No," Ratchet sighed. "Not without their creator close behind. He shouldn't know left from right at that age, much less have been able t'live on the streets like he said he had. I don't know where he came from, but--"

"With a friend like yourself, he should go far," Forte finished when Ratchet paused, one hand on his tanks. "Only if you start to take care of yourself, however."

"The same goes for you, old mech," Ratchet shot back once he was able. "He ain't your partner, but he'll be a good student. He needs you, you need him."

"It seems so," Forte murmured, smiling. "You are a much better mech than you give yourself credit for, Ratchet."

"If you say so," the medic grumbled, curling onto his side in an attempt to ease the burn in his middle.

***

After a first quick scrub to get the surface layers of grime off, he stood for a long time under the spray, greatly enjoying the way the cleansing fluid was stroking gentle fingers down his armor. The tactile sense was something he had never allowed himself time to process before; he had been too busy scrounging to live. Here, though...the way Forte had brought Ratchet the high-grade oil to soothe the burns on the inside of the medic's fuel tanks caused him to rethink his position.

Fuel tanks were tricky things, he knew, rubbing a hand over his own gently. Too much poorly refined energon, too much high-grade or going a long time without any energon and the acids in a mech's fuel tanks would begin to unbalance, corroding the inside. If the corrosion reached the point of rusting... well, it was an excruciatingly painful way to go offline, as the body attempted to use the rust-filled acid as fuel, or when the harsh corrosives ate a hole in the tank lining and spilled onto unprotected internal systems. It was the reason there were pain receptors built into the fuel tanks; to warn a mech when things were getting out of balance. Only when there was no choice did a mech ignore the warning signs. Why had Ratchet let it go so far? Surely a medic would know better.

And what about Forte? What was it about the gentle mech that caused the young white and black mech to want to trust him without question? The youngster shook his head and went back to cleaning himself off, frowning when he finally realized that his paint had somehow changed. He distinctly remembered being an unassuming gray and black, patterned in such a way that his outline would be easily lost in a shadow. Now, however, he was a stark white all over, save where his actual armor color was black. That had been left paint-free and smoothed to a finish which would shine with little effort. He flexed his dark hands, realizing with a growing smile that he had a chance to truly start over...it wasn't likely anyone from the lower city or Tyrest would recognize him as the meek, unspeaking mech he used to be.

Yes, he thought, grinning at himself in the reflective surface the washrack provided. _Past is past. Ain't about how a mech came t'be, it's the spark that counts. I can trust Forte an' I can trust Ratchet. So that's what I'm gonna do._

He made his way to the front room, grinning when Forte and Ratchet looked up from whatever soft voiced conversation they had been having. The medic's optic ridge quirked but Forte returned the smile with a gentle one of his own. "I want to stay here," the young black and white mech announced.

"It seems a good scrub does much to improve a mech's outlook on life," Forte chuckled, offering some energon. "It's just low-grade...we can work you up so you're not undercharged gradually."

"Thank you," the young mech replied, smiling as he took the can and settled on the floor to sip it.

"You may use one of the chairs," Forte murmured after a puzzled silence. The black and white mech grinned at him.

"Floor's comfy an' this way, if I fall asleep, I won't have far t'fall."

Ratchet gave a sound that could only be described as a snort of laughter. "I like that logic," he commented, grinning.

"This energon shouldn't put you to sleep," Forte told the young mech. "It is more gently refined than what you are probably used to."

"It does taste better," the young mech agreed. "Smoother."

After a bit of concentrating on the energon he realized that the room had fallen quiet, but it was a comfortable silence, instead of an awkward one. He glanced at Ratchet and allowed himself to smile slightly; the medic was peacefully in recharge.

"Come, young mech," Forte murmured, his voice not breaking the silence, but more slipping in under it. He rose and the black and white youngster copied the movement, grinning when he was able to rise with grace that equaled Forte's movements. "A natural dancer," the older mech commented softly, leading the way from the room.

"Was just copyin' you," the young mech replied, glancing over his shoulder at Ratchet before passing from the room himself. He followed Forte down a hallway past several closed doors that the taller mech didn't comment on. The hallway opened into a space with smooth, even floors, mirrors along one wall and a high tapered ceiling. When he stepped into the room the younger mech paused, his visor going dark briefly; it was acoustically perfect. Every sound became enhanced, yet muted, even Forte's footsteps echoed back to land with pleasure on the audios. "I like this place," the young mech murmured, listening to his own tones patter gently against the walls.

"I thought you might," Forte chuckled. Here his voice didn't sound as rough or hoarse, though it was still clear his vocals were badly worn. He brought his guest some pads, motioning for him to take a seat on the bench along one side of the room. The young mech opted, again, for the floor instead, splaying the pads out in front of him so he could see them all at once.

"This is you," he murmured, pointing at a video clip of a mech dancing. "An' this," he added, frowning at another of Forte singing.

"Long, long ago, yes," Forte agreed. "Before the fighting. Once Ratchet's had some rest, we will use the equipment in here to teach you what you wish to learn--"

"All of it!" The black and white mech sprang to his feet, expression longingly intent. "I want to know _everythin'_ , Forte, please. When music plays, I feel it, here," he placed a hand on his chest. "It resonates. It calls. I want t'know why."

"We may never know, sparkling," Forte told him, leaning back against the wall. "It strikes me the same way. Then there are others, like our medic friend, who simply enjoy the sound but can not feel it. Beyond that, there are still others who simply hear noise."

The young mech took a step back, his expression flickering to aghast. "How is that possible?" He asked, "it's stronger than anything I've ever felt before. Don't they know what they're missin'? Doesn't it make them sad?"

"They do not know," the taller mech replied. "It is not a sensor that can be installed or taken out. It is in the spark. And though all sparks are equal, they were not created to be the same. Primus has many faces and therefore, so do his sparklings."

Nodding slowly, the black and white mech gazed down at the pad still in his hands, watching the soundless images of Forte singing and dancing quietly. When the clips had ended, he looked up again, his expression open and clear. "Forte, will you give me a name?"

"I believe I can do that." The mech stood and moved to the younger mech's side, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You have a style and grace all your own, strong, caring, passionate, gentle. There is a term that means all of these things and more, in music...jazz."

The word settled pleasantly into the young black and white mech's mind and he smiled. "Jazz. It feels good to say, an' t'hear. I like it."

"Then that, my young friend, is who you will be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forte belongs to a good friend of mine, known on tumblr as http://raccoonmama.tumblr.com


End file.
